I hope that this year is better than the first 3 days.
haha.
ha.
haaaa.

the poet carved in wood
and the tree grew

the poet carved in stone
and lichen covered the words

a long longed for love
finally cradled the poem

the poem the poet conceived
breaking their own heart

Ingrid seldom laughed;
it made her
protruding teeth
seem more so
than they were.

She spread her lips
tightly to smile
so that only
small gaps
at the sides
became visible.

A Knock-Knock joke,
I said.

She nodded,
waited.

Knock-Knock.

She looked at me
expectantly.

You have to say:
who's there?
I said.

O, I didn't know,
she said.

Knock-Knock.

Who's there?

Me.

She looked
at her scuffed shoes.

You need to say:
Who's me?

She looked up at me
and said,
O, right.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Me.

Who's me?

I don’t know
who you are,
but I'm Benny,
I said.

I watched as her lips
tried to stay stiff
and unmoving,
but her lips
disobeyed her,
and spread open
into a wide O,
and her slightly
protruding teeth
came into view.

I smiled mildly:
what else could
a nine year old boy
do?

If I held out my hand
would you take it ?
it's warmth ready to permeate your soul
but what would it tell you of me ?
the scar on my finger
the wrinkling skin
the crooked pinkie
the gnarl on my thumb
stories to be told
if you would only take hold.

You fed me lies, while I swallowed every syllable.
You gave me your bittersweet words of false hope to chew on,
And I willingly devoured them at each sitting.

Now I lay here staring at the letters you once wrote me,
Seeing now that I was blinded.
With each progressing sentence,
You made a fool of me.
And now all I crave to do,
Is watch each word burn in raged flames.

Yet, I'm still hungry.

- (c.w.)